Then, with the situation stable, there was time for safety lines and sensible decisions. I vaguely listened to animated discussion about angles and fulcrums, how best to use the ropes we each carried to fight the tremendous water force that kept me pinned, but it all felt irrelevant, a standardized test question that didn’t apply to me. I could breathe. That was the only thing that mattered.
It took a half hour to drag the boat far enough so I could creep out, my body cold and stiff, every inch a battle. It took another half hour to get my empty kayak to shore, and for the others to portage their boats around the blockage. The day had warmed, but I couldn’t stop shaking. I ate chocolate. Coughed up river water. Talked little.
Then, of course, we all loaded up again and headed downriver, because downriver was the only way to go. It was a subdued group this time, me in the middle, my thinking blurred and my confidence badly shaken.
The nightmares that followed me those next few years were choppy and varied, often including the super-charged adrenaline rush of the early part of the trip before flipping into those moments of sheer panic underwater, ice-cold, blinded, and unable to breathe. Even during the day, the sound of rushing water at exactly the right pitch plunged me back into those moments of drowning, my hard-wired reptilian brain screaming danger despite the fact I was safe on dry land.
I tried two or three times to go back out on whitewater. I committed to a group trip, showed up on time, had the right gear. I was fiercely determined to get past my fear. Once, I got as far as loading the boat. Another time, I got into the boat and almost launched. But each time panic took hold, the memories flooded back with burning intensity, and I abandoned the misguided attempt.
I gave myself pep talks. Called myself a wimp. I tried to convince myself that one day I’d find enough backbone to reclaim the joy. Nothing worked. Since that day of near-drowning, I confined myself to calm, quiet lakes and left the rivers to others.
The nightmare I had that first night in Colorado was a new version, with Sawyer safe on shore with his arm around Del, laughing as I swept downriver. I woke, soaked in sweat, the unrestrained roar of the creek that bounded the campground pounding in my ears, and the bitter taste of fear and failure coating my throat.
I waited for my heart to slow. For reality to return.
I wanted to go home. I wanted to go out and work in my garden. I wanted to see how Python and Java were growing. I needed to gather eggs, check the orchard, start on my next coding project.
Del had hijacked my life once again.
I sat up in the tent, pulling the sleeping bag—Sawyer’s sleeping bag—tight around me for warmth. Tellico lifted his head but didn’t get up. Josh slept on, undisturbed, in that dead-to-the-world sleep I vaguely remembered from my teenage years, one arm wrapped around the shaggy dog.
Based on all I’d learned, he might be better off without his mother, but that wasn’t my call. We’d look. I’d do my best. If we didn’t turn anything up by the time we needed to head home, I’d go to the Aspen police and dump the whole thing in their laps—Carl, drugs, and all—regardless of whether that got Del in trouble.
The light shifted, brightening. I unzipped the tent flap as quietly as I could and stepped into the cool morning, stretching and rubbing my lower back. The ground had gotten harder over the past decade. Or perhaps I’d just gotten older.
Tellico followed me. I fed him, heated water for tea, enjoyed the calm. I’d told Josh we would start with the bars, and that was logical enough. But then what? I was no detective. Drive up and down streets, looking randomly for Del? Or for Sawyer’s mysterious doppelganger?
I should call Landon. He would stay calm and sensible. We could brainstorm ideas together, and that would give me new avenues to explore. The idea of reaching out surprised me. I’d spent plenty of energy keeping Landon at arm’s length, but now I wanted to talk, and in that moment of need he was the only one who’d do.
I pulled out my phone. My finger hovered over the icon to dial. But I couldn’t call. If I ever said yes to Landon, I’d be handing him my heart, and that was even scarier than my whitewater nightmares.
I slipped the phone back in my pocket and forced my thoughts back to the search. By the time Josh got up, I’d twisted myself into knots, convinced our trip was doomed to failure.
We walked Tellico. We finished breakfast.
“Now can we start looking?” Josh was right to sound so impatient. I was just piddling around the campsite, avoiding the inevitable, dreading the day.
“Yep. Come on. Hop in the truck.” I pulled out of the campground and headed back into town. “Did you have any luck later on, finding photos of a bar with baseball stuff on the wall?”
Josh was scrolling through his phone again. “No. But I found a list of sports bars. I can give you directions.”
“Great.”
So, we were off. At least I didn’t have to constantly search the streets here for a lurking Carl.
The first bar was still closed, but the guy sweeping up let us in to look at the walls. There was a heavy smell of stale beer, but no Red Sox stuff, and he didn’t know where we might find what we were looking for. No luck at the second bar either. By the time we got to the fifth one, we had it down to a science: find a parking place, make sure the windows were down for Tellico, go in and look, ask for the employee who had been there the longest, see if he or she knew where to go next. We worked down the whole list of sports bars. Nothing.
“Now what?” Josh sounded just as discouraged as I was.
“Now, that burger I promised you. Then we start down the list of non-sports bars.”
A cheeseburger and fries improved Josh’s mood, and at least vegetarian options were plentiful here. My pasta was excellent, and my optimism went up in sync with my recovering blood sugar. “We’ll have better luck this afternoon.” I hoped.
We started on the new list. At the second place we checked, Josh and I walked from outdoor sunshine into the gloom of the interior, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. I could smell fresh popcorn and hot butter, a good omen.
A young woman with green hair and a bar T-shirt stepped forward. “I’m sorry, but we don’t permit underage children here.”
I nodded—some of the other bars had fussed as well—but I stood my ground and looked around. It was a rabbit-warren bar, with a small entry room and a half-dozen doors leading off into separate spaces, extending behind the adjacent retail stores. It was the sort of place you’d book for a private party. Or the sort of place you’d go to stay out of the public eye.
The room we stood in had photos of the Golden Gate Bridge and Lombard Street. The side panel of a San Francesco cable car was mounted on one long wall. There were posters for the Giants and the Golden State Warriors.
Not a sports bar. A bar with a city theme. “Do you have a room dedicated to Boston?”
The woman raised an eyebrow, a bit startled, but she nodded.
“Could we see it, please? We’re not here to drink, and Josh here won’t give you any trouble. We’re trying to find someone.”
This all sounded lame, even to me, but Josh stepped up. “Please?” The helpless-orphan expression on his face would have melted granite.
The woman visibly softened. “I guess it’s okay if you just want to look. It’s this way.”
We followed her, leaving San Francesco behind, and passing through New York City and New Orleans. The Boston room was in the far back corner of the building. Photos showed the city skyline, the harbor, and crew teams rowing on the Charles. One entire wall was filled with Red Sox memorabilia.
“This is it.” I glanced at Josh, who was grinning, but then I slammed up against the what-next question and turned back to the waitress. “We think the person we’re looking for has been here. Could we show you a photo? And maybe show it to other people who work here?”
She started a reflexive headshake, but once again Josh saved us. “Please? It’s my mom we’re looking for. It will just take a minute.” H
e pulled up the photo of Del we’d given to the police. “This is her. Have you seen her?”
She shook her head but took the phone. “Give me a minute. I’ll go check with the other waitresses.”
Josh and I waited.
After a few minutes she came back, but she was frowning in failure. “Sorry. No one recognized her.”
Josh took the phone with downcast eyes and turned for the exit.
“Wait a minute.” I touched his arm to stop him. “Turn this way, Josh.” He turned, and I shifted him to one side so the light from a wall sconce fell on his face. “Have you seen a man who looks sort of like this?”
The no head shake started before she’d even looked properly, but then she caught herself. “Hang on. Yeah. There’s a guy who comes in here every once in a while, and he looks a lot like him. Come to think of it, he usually asks if there’s a table back here in this room.”
Interesting. Sawyer’s doppelganger liked to hide in the back. “Do you know his name? Or how we could get in touch with him?” If Del had been successful in finding him, maybe he knew where she was.
“No. Sorry. I’ve waited on him before, but he’s not very chatty. Usually here by himself. He orders tequila shots and always pays cash.”
It sounded like the same guy Dave had spotted. “Thanks very much.” I pulled a grocery receipt from my pocket and borrowed her pen to scribble down my cell number. “If he comes in over the next few days, could you give me a call? I just want to talk to him. See if he knows anything that would help.”
She looked doubtful, but she slid the paper into the back of her order pad.
“There’s a reward,” Josh chimed in.
My dismay at this bit of initiative must have shown on my face because Josh gave me an I’ll-do-what-I-want look, as if he was delighted to irritate me. But the girl perked up. “Sure. I’ll call if he comes in on a day I’m working.”
“Thanks.” It was a long shot—she’d probably forget the whole conversation as soon as we left—but worth a try.
Josh and I headed back out to the sidewalk.
“We did it!” His enthusiasm was infectious, and my pessimism shifted off to one side. Maybe, just maybe, we were on the right path.
But we walked back to the truck, and the remaining challenges slammed home. Yes, we’d found the right bar. We’d confirmed a man existed who looked a lot like Sawyer. But even if we found this guy, there was no guarantee he would lead us to Del.
“Now what?” Josh was still looking happy, and he turned around in his seat to scratch Tellico behind the ears.
Great question. “I guess now we keep looking.”
“Yeah, but we found the right bar. So, what are we looking for now?”
“We found the bar Dave had been to. But we’re trying to find your mother, not this lookalike stranger. We need to pretend we’re Del and look for other places we think she would have gone.”
I now knew every street in the Aspen business district, the location of every public parking lot, and the best green spots to walk Tellico. Other than that, nothing.
My phone chimed, and I wasn’t surprised to see yet another countdown reminder from Carl or one of his minions. I clicked “Delete,” blocked the number—he must toss his phone after a single day, because the numbers were always different—and got back out of the truck. “Come on. Maybe sugar will help us think.”
We got ice cream cones and sat on a bench. “How do detectives do this?” We were trying to sift through a fair-sized town one millimeter at a time. “Any suggestions from your video games?”
Josh gave a dispirited laugh. “Yeah, we should go on a quest, earn extra life energy, and kill an alien. That wins the game.”
“Wrong game.” But my question had jostled a memory that put my thoughts on a different track. “I read a mystery a long time ago where the detective found the missing woman because he knew she raised heirloom vegetables. He tracked her down because she kept her subscription to a special seed catalog.”
Josh took a lick of his rocky road. “Mom hates vegetables.”
“I know, I know. But your mom isn’t stupid.” Underneath the thick layer of crap she wrapped around her life, she had plenty of brain cells. Or at least she did before she started taking pills. “I think she believed—really believed—the man Dave saw was your father. So, she wasn’t looking for a twin, she was looking for the real Sawyer.”
I was so intent on thinking my way forward into an action plan that the words spilled out. I didn’t realize what I’d done until Josh’s ice cream cone landed on the sidewalk in front of us, slipping unnoticed from his slack fingers. Tellico leaned down to lap up the unexpected treat.
“My dad is alive? He’s not dead?”
Shit. I’d screwed up yet again. “I’m sorry. No. He’s not alive. He died in a plane crash, just like you’ve always been told.” Josh looked at me, wide-eyed, his face a jumbled mix of hope and anger and disbelief. I squeezed his hand. “He’s dead, Josh. I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise.”
He nodded slowly.
“I’m sorry I didn’t make myself clear. I was thinking your mother believed it was really Sawyer.” And she chased out here to find him. She’d been working at the bank when the safety deposit box was emptied—maybe she thought there’d be money involved if she found him. “At any rate, if that’s what she believed, and she came here to find him, maybe she would think the way the detective in the story did.”
“My dad liked vegetable seeds?”
I would have laughed except for the fact that he was deadly serious. “No. At least not when I knew him. The question is, what did he like?”
“And then that’s where we look, because that’s where we think Mom looked.”
“Exactly.” More than a few brain cells in this kid’s head, no question.
Josh looked like he was thinking hard, so I held back from spitting out the things that popped to mind.
After a minute, he came out with his own list. “Flying. He took lessons. Had his license. Mom said a bunch of times that she hated how much he liked flying, so maybe she would believe he’d keep doing it.” He gave me a fast look. “If he were alive. Which he isn’t.”
“We passed a sign for the county airport on our way in. We’ll check there.”
“Camping. He had all that camping equipment.”
We had all that camping equipment. But it was a good point. “Yes. Maybe your mom would have checked with the outdoor stores.”
“Kayaking.”
That one hit me closer to home, but of course he was right. “Absolutely. We’ll check with places that sell boats or organize whitewater trips.”
“But what if he’s changed? What if he does different stuff now?” He sounded genuinely concerned that his father could be different now.
I reached over and gave him a gentle one-armed hug to try to soften what I had to say. “He’s dead, Josh. I’m sorry to keep repeating it, but it’s true. The Coast Guard investigated. They issued a death certificate. We’re not looking for your actual father. We’re thinking of places that might lead us to your mom.”
I’d been startled by Josh’s offer of a reward, but I was starting to hope Del had done the same in her search for Sawyer. It would make her more memorable. Her cell phone was still off—Josh tried it every morning—but maybe Del had left her own scraps of scribbled contact information scattered around town. Maybe that would lead us to her.
Josh pulled out of my hug, and it took him a minute before he said anything else. “So, can you think of anywhere else?”
Bars, of course, but we’d already done that. “I think you’ve hit the top three. Good job. I’ll keep thinking.”
Thinking about Sawyer was exactly what I’d trained myself to avoid. What else had Sawyer loved? Campfires. Classic rock. Thrills, no matter how they came packaged. Waffles and creamy-smooth mashed potatoes and chocolate-chunk brownies warm from the oven.
He loved quiet hikes and noisy parties. His lucky flannel shi
rt from high school. Holding hands in private, but not in public. Making slow delicious love in the early morning, when the sunlight was just beginning to filter through the east window of his bedroom.
What else had Sawyer loved? Me.
Or so I’d believed. I’d been dead wrong about that. And maybe that meant I was wrong about everything else.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Josh
“He’s dead, Josh.”
Bryn and I drove to the airport without talking, but I kept hearing that one sentence in my head, repeated over and over. Bryn believed it. Before today, I believed it too. Even when we talked to Dave, I’d thought about crazy stuff like twins, but I hadn’t thought about the simpler thing. Maybe Dad was still alive.
Was that possible?
I’d seen it on TV lots of times, especially in the soap operas Mom liked to watch. Crooks on the run. Witness protection. People with amnesia. They made it look easy—you go somewhere new, pick a different name, start again. You leave your old life behind and never look back.
But really, was that possible? And if it was possible, then what kind of dad would do something like that?
Bryn had shot the idea down right off. And maybe she was right. But if there was any chance, any chance at all, that Dad was out here, then we were looking for two people now, not one.
I called out the last turn to the airport from my phone map. It turned out to be a tiny place, nothing like the big airport in Memphis where Mom and I had gone to pick up one of her boyfriends. That one had all kinds of traffic and roads and signs, and we sat in a parking lot and watched the airplanes come in and land. Here, small planes were parked in a long row beside a single landing strip, and only two bigger jets were lined up by the terminal. Mountains rose up tall on all sides, making the airport feel hidden.
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